The Birthday Party
by RebeccaWatsonPond
Summary: Molly Hooper throws Sherlock Holmes a birthday party with the help of Lestrade, John, Mrs. Hudson and an unwilling Anderson. Fluff ensues.
1. Chapter 1

_It was Sherlock's birthday. But he didn't care, of course; it didn't matter to him whether he was 27 or 72. All that mattered to him was his work, and he'd start worrying about trivial things such as age when he felt that his work was being affected by it. _

John walked into the living room of 221B after a night of disturbed sleep.

"Honestly, Sherlock, do you really have to play Bach at quarter to 5 in the morning? I've hardly slept at all!" Sherlock shrugged in response to his flat-mate's complaints and carried on loading the pistol he had in his hands. "And what are you doing with that?" Sherlock raised the gun in answer, and shot at the face that he had painted on the wall some time ago. John flinched and covered his ears with his hands.

"Does that answer your question?" asked Sherlock, throwing the gun down.

"Bloody hell, you can't just-!" John stopped himself from shouting, shook his head and changed the subject. "Anyway, happy birthday, Sherlock."

"Is it?" Sherlock retorted, standing and pacing around the living room. He stopped at the window and sighed.

"What's wrong?" asked John, sitting down in his usual armchair.

"I'm bored, John! I haven't had a case in over two days. I wouldn't even turn down a missing rabbit right now!" John smiled as he remembered Bluebell, but his smile quickly faded as he remembered the fear he had felt in Baskerville. He picked up his laptop.

"I'll check the website for any cases, if you like?" Sherlock threw himself childishly on the sofa as John spoke.

"No point, I already did that," he replied, mumbling into the cold leather.

"But my laptop has a pass- Oh whatever. You've got to stop doing that, Sherlock!" John closed his laptop and placed it back on the table next to him. Sherlock rolled over and smiled to himself, eyes closed. "I'll go put the kettle on, shall I?" No reply. John sighed and walked towards the kitchen when Sherlock's phone made a familiar sound.

"John. Phone."

"Really, Sherlock?" John walked over to Sherlock's coat, expecting to find it in one of the pockets and rolled his eyes when he found that it wasn't there. He realised that it was, in fact, in his jacket pocket. The one Sherlock was wearing. "Oh, get it yourself." he muttered, and left the room again. Sherlock sighed, sat up with what seemed like great difficulty and fished for his phone. Pulling his knees into his chest, he entered his password and read the text.

"John!" he yelled, standing up on the couch with the excitement obvious in his voice. "John, come quick! We have a case!" The ex-army doctor walked obediently into the living room.

"We do?" he asked, reaching for his jacket that was strewn over the back of his chair.

"We do! Molly just text me. Four bodies have been found, all within five miles of the Globe Theatre. Completely unrelated causes of death, but they were all found with a copy of Hamlet on their person!" John watched, amused, as Sherlock dashed around the room picking up his coat, scarf and notebook. As it was his birthday, he humored the detective's enthusiasm.

"To the morgue, then?"

"To the morgue!" Sherlock echoed, pointing to the door and causing John to laugh slightly. He thought it was quite entertaining that Sherlock had just sounded exactly like one of the many heroes he claimed not to be. The detective ran out of the room, and John swiftly followed, still smiling to himself.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock threw open the doors to Bart's Medical School, his long coat billowing dramatically behind him, and walked purposefully down the many dark corridors with John loyally following. Suddenly, he stopped and turned around.

"What are you doing?" John asked, nearly crashing into his friend. Sherlock silenced John with a raised finger and looked carefully at the floor at his feet. "Sherlock, really, what are you-"

"Something's wrong, John," interrupted Sherlock, crouching down to examine the apparently invisible mystery. John mimicked Sherlock's actions in a hope to realise what he was so interested in.

"What's-"

"There!" Sherlock gestured to the spot he'd been intently looking at before. John stared blankly at the empty space, his confusion showing clearly on his face. "There!" Sherlock repeated, gesturing more violently this time. "Can't you see?!" John shook his head.

"Sherlock, there's nothing…" John was interrupted once more, this time by the taller man's exasperated sigh.

"…Nothing, exactly!" he rose from his crouching position and spun with his arms outstretched. "Nothing anywhere!" John, who was now also stood, shook his head.

"Sherlock, I still don't see-"

"No, John, you see but you don't observe!" Sherlock began to pace the corridor. "The floor – it's clean, yes? I mean, completely immaculate asides from a few footprints." he paused and checked John's face for a sign of understanding. When his search came back negative, he carried on speaking and pacing. "How can the floor be unmarked? It can't. This is the only corridor leading to the double doors of the morgue –"

"Sherlock, please," John tried to stop the detective's speech. His attempt was futile.

"– the only door to the morgue capable of allowing a trolley to pass through easily. Four bodies were apparently brought into the morgue today in the last three hours, and there is no chance that the floor has been cleaned in that time otherwise –"

"Sherlock, stop!"

"- there would still be at least three – no, two – spots on the floor not yet dried of water. But the floor is completely dry and completely clean. So where are the wheel marks from the trolley? From the absence of these marks, John, we are able to deduct that Molly was lying to me this morning. And Molly lying is not a good sign. She must be under the influence of yet another evil mastermind – God knows she has a taste for them – but who?" Sherlock marched forward, completely ignoring John's attempts at stopping him. He stopped just before the morgue doors and sighed, shoulders slumping. "Oh John, I'm an idiot."

"You are?" his friend asked innocently, ignoring the temptation to simply agree with him.

"Well no, but I've made a mistake," he turned to John who noticed the disappointment on his face. "She's thrown me a party, hasn't she?" The replying look on John's face was enough confirmation and he sighed again. "Oh well. Better get this over with," he mumbled and turned. Taking a deep breath, he pushed the doors open and stepped into the morgue.


	3. Chapter 3

"SURPRISE!" Sherlock had thrown open the doors to reveal Molly, Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson and a rather bored looking Anderson all stood around a homemade cake – from Mrs. Hudson, no doubt - wearing birthday hats.

"Oh for God's- who invitied Anderson?!" Sherlock asked loudly, throwing his hands up in exasperation. Mrs. Hudson cowered slightly at his outburst.

"It's not like I actually want to be here," Anderson replied, pulling off his hat and throwing it to the ground, "can I just get some cake and go?" When no one replied, he sighed and walked out of the morgue, the doors swinging behind him.

"So..." Molly began, smiling awkwardly, "that went well." Sherlock looked at her. No one spoke for what seemed like an age, but must have been a few seconds.

"Cake, anyone?" Lestrade finally asked, breaking the silence and gesturing at the cake which Sherlock now realised was in the shape of the door to 221 Baker Street. John smiled in response and walked over to the Inspector who began to cut up the cake. Sherlock remained standing, still staring at Molly. She was wearing a short, garish yellow dress which clashed fantastically with the green of her knee-length cardigan with matching green heels. Her hair was pulled back into single plait, crudely tied with a yellow ribbon. Sherlock rolled his eyes and walked over to where John was standing, completely ignoring the obvious look of hurt on Molly's face.

"John, can we leave yet?" he asked bluntly, not attempting to hide his bordom and irritation.

"We've only just got here!" John protested. "Besides," he continued, holding up his paper plate, "I have cake to eat."

"Then I'll go home on my own," Sherlock muttered. He turned to leave, his eyes pausing slightly on Mrs. Hudson who was currently holding a crying Molly and shooting a rather disapproving look in the detective's direction. Unsure about what he had done to upset the lab assistant, he continued with his exit.


	4. Chapter 4

A quick taxi-ride later and Sherlock arrived back at 221B Baker Street, frustrated and more bored than before. He threw his coat and scarf over the back of John's chair and took a seat in his own before picking up his violin. He played for a while, still wondering why Molly had begun to cry.

She wasn't the strongest of people, Sherlock realised this, and him walking out on a party that she'd obviously put effort into must have annoyed her. But why would it have upset her? They hardly knew each other anyway, Sherlock reminded himself. So they worked together a bit at Barts, so what? That was the extent of their relationship and neither of them had the desire to bring it any further.

Or did they?

Sherlock placed the violin is his lap and began tapping the bow on the arm of his chair. Actually, when he thought about it, there were quite a lot of times that had suggested Molly had wanted to take their relationship beyond that of work associates. She offered him coffee regularly, attempted to make conversation about trivial things, worked late hours just to help him out... And there was that time last Christmas!

Sherlock sighed and dropped the bow on the violin in his lap. How had he been so _stupid_? He was getting rusty. Not realising the surprise party straight away, now this. What was up with him today? Sherlock stood and placed his instrument in his seat. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out his phone. He typed a quick messaage and his thumb hovered over the send button. He couldn't quite believe he was doing this. He couldn't believe that he, Sherlock Holmes, was about apologise for leaving a party. Sighing to himself again in a 'what-the-hell' manner, he pressed send.

Even if he didn't see Molly the way she saw him, Sherlock had grown accostomed to having certain people around him and in a way he knew he didn't want to lose her. In a way, he knew he needed her.


	5. Chapter 5

Molly watched him leave through tears and began to sob harder as the morgue doors swung close behind him.

"I just don't-" she began, before being overcome by tears once again.

"Ssh now, dear," Mrs. Hudson soothed in a comforting tone, holding Molly as she cried, "this is Sherlock, remember. He can be really rude sometimes, but I don't think he means to be." Molly nodded into a hug and tried to talk again.

"I- I know, it's just... Why?" Molly looked up from Mrs. Hudson's shoulder and saw John looking over. She saw him mouth 'Are you okay?' and she nodded in response before watching him mutter something to Lestrade that looked a lot like 'I'm going to kill him'.

Suddenly, Molly's pocket buzzed.

"Ooh!" Mrs. Hudson exclaimed, stepping back and laughing slightly. "I think you've got a text, dear!" Molly wiped at her eyes with the back of a hand before pulling out her phone. It was from Sherlock. Great, all she needed. Probably a deduction about how she could have done the party better or how stupid she looked or why she shouldn't have invited Anderson. Opening the text, she was pleasantly surprised.

_I'm sorry,_ the text read, _about leaving so quickly. Let me make it up to you? - SH_

Molly read the text four times, not quite sure what to make of it. For starters, Sherlock Holmes had NEVER apologised. Not once in the time she had known him and he ever even acknowledged that the word sorry even existed. Secondly, he wasn't just apologising, but he was offering to make emmends. What did that even mean? 'Let me make it up to you'? That could be anything! But whatever it is, Molly thought, it could only be good.

Finally blinking back the last of her tears and smiling, she text back the word _'Okay'._


	6. Chapter 6

Sherlock was nowhere to be seen when John finally arrived home after the party. It had been a bit of a failure, he had to admit, but something had cheered Molly up a wonder preceding Sherlock's rude departure. He wondered what this could be as he felt about in his pocket for his key.

Finally, he opened the door to 221B and was greeted by the unexpected and unwanted smell of burning. His initial feeling was one of panic, but once he'd realised that his living room was not going up in flames, it turned to curiosity. Grimacing slightly at the odour, John made his way to where the smell seemed to be coming from - the kitchen.

"What the-?" John murmured, surveying the scene. There was a white, flour-like substance covering the worktops and a pile of filthy pots stacked in the sink. He walked over to the sink and examined the mess more closely. Lifting up a blackened tin, John laughed. The flour-like substance adorning the counters was, in fact, flour. Sherlock had been attempting to bake. He looked around there small kitchen and opened up the oven, causing the smell to intensify. John quickly closed up the oven and began to laugh. Sherlock? Baking? What was going on? John pulled his phone out of his jeans pocket and rang his flat-mate. Sherlock didn't pick up so he left a message. "Sherlock? It's me. What's going on? Where are you? And what the hell were you doing attempting to make a Victoria bloody sponge?!"


	7. Chapter 7

Sherlock walked around Tesco looking dubiously at the extensive collection of flour, sugar and spices. He'd contemplated buying a cake, but decided Molly would probably appreciate it all the more if he made it himself. He picked up a pack of edible ball-bearings, shook his head and placed them back on the shelf. How the heck was he supposed to do this? It should be simple, he told himself, so why had his first attempt set on fire?! He looked around at the other people in the aisle and at what they were buying. The woman next to him had just put a jar of vanilla pods in her basket. Wondering if he should follow her move, Sherlock sauntered up and down the aisle in contemplation. He soon, however, gave in to the temptation of just asking Mrs. Hudson to make the cake for him. Sighing in defeat, he pulled his phone out of his jacket pocket and saw he had a voicemail message waiting for him.

_" - make a bloody Victoria sponge?!"_ said John's voice over the phone, tinny but clear. Sherlock smiled to himself, laughed a little, at his message and continued to call Mrs. H. After four rings, she answered.

"Hello?" she spoke in a warm and welcoming manner.

"Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock began as he made his way out of the supermarket, "I need you to do me a favour."

"Of course, my dear," she replied enthusiastically, "but I'm not your house-keeper!"

"No, of course. It's just... I need a cake."

And before Sherlock could explain any further or change his mind, he could already hear her clattering about in her kitchen as she asked one very important question.

"Vanilla or chocolate?"

"Either will do," Sherlock replied, climbing in to a cab before adding, "whatever you think Molly prefers."


	8. Chapter 8

By the time Sherlock arrived home, the entirety of 221B was filled with the sickly-sweet smell of chocolate cake. He inhaled it gratefully as he stepped over the threshold and removed his scarf. He began climbing the stairs to 221B as Mrs. Hudson popped her head around the corner of her door.

"Sherlock!" she exlaimed, smiling. She was wearing an orange, autumn-themed apron that was now covered in various foods. "I thought I heard you come in," she continued, "just thought I'd let you know that your cake's done. Just needs to cool before I can ice it for you." Sherlock smiled and stepped off of the stairs.

"Mrs. Hudson, you're a star!" he said, hugging the woman. She giggled and waved away his compliement.

"Nonsense, I just like a good baking session!" she confessed, patting him on the shoulder. "John's home, by the way. I heard him about twenty minutes ago," she smiled at him and returned to her apartment and Sherlock turned to make his way to his.

He climbed up the stairs with ease and pushed open the unlocked door to 221B to find John spraying air-freshner all over the apartment with all windows open.

"Ah, John -" Sherlock began, but John silenced him with an icy glare.

"You've completely stunk the bloody place out!" John complained, throwing the now half-empty aerosol can at Sherlock who caught it without taking his eyes off of his seething flat-mate. "What were you even doing? I left you a voicemail!" Sherlock stood rooted to the spot.

"I can explain," he said, throwing the can onto the sofa. John sighed and flopped into his chair.

"Oh I've no doubt about that, Sherlock. But next time you have the random impulse to bake, do me a favour? Don't." In reply to this, Sherlock smiled and joined John around the fireplace and taking a seat in his own chair.

"It was for Molly," Sherlock explained as he sat, "the apology I promised her."

"Really?" John asked, raising an eyebrow. "You walk out of a party that she planned for two months and you think a bit of cake is going to fix everything?"

"It's Mrs. Hudson's cake," Sherlock countered, as if that made everything better. John laughed.

"You can't just give her cake, Sherlock! Even if it is a Mrs. H spectacular. You promised _you'd _make it up to her, not Mrs. Hudson." Sherlock didn't know what to say. In all truthfulness, John thought cake was a lovely apology. He just thought Sherlock could do that little bit more for Molly after all the help and dedication she'd put in over God knows how many years.

"Well... what do you suggest?" Sherlock asked.

"I don't know!" John exclaimed, throwing his hands up and laying back in his chair. "You're in London, take her to a play or something!" Sherlock thought about this for a while, leaving the two in silence. After a few minutes, he got up and went to John's laptop.

"What are you doing?" John enquired, turning in his seat.

"Looking for theatre tickets," Sherlock replied bluntly.

"Why didn't you just use your own laptop?"

"Too far away."

"Really, Sherlock? It's right there!" John sighed, pointing to the laptop that was, in fact, simply five inches away from his own on the same table.

"Mm," came the reply. It was evident that Sherlock wasn't really listening from the speed at which he was typing. John's eyes followed his fingers as they continued to tap swiftly at the keyboard. "Aha!" Sherlock remarked after about ten minutes of searching.

"What?" John asked, standing to look at the laptop screen closer but Sherlock was already closing it and grabbing his coat.

"I'll be back soon," Sherlock called as he left the flat, "I have a musical to see!"

"Okay, but I won't wait up!" John called back, smiling. He made his way to his laptop and flipped it open. The webpage that was open was that of Her Majesty's Theatre. John scrolled down and saw the booking details.

_Confirmation: 2 tickets in the name of Mr. S Holmes, January 6th evening performance 7:30pm, total price £82, Phantom of the Opera._


End file.
